Dark minister of many woes,
That lov'st the sad vicissitude of pain,
Now shivering 'mid Antarctic snows,
Now a faint pilgrim on Medina's plain.
Say, can no form less fair thy vein engage?
Must feeble loveliness exhaust thy rage?
Oh, mark the faltering step, the languid eye,
And all the anguish of her burning sigh:
See the faintly struggling smile,
See resignation's tear the while;
So to the axe the martyr bends his form,
So bends the lovely lily to the storm.
Still though, sweet maid, thy yielding bloom decays,
And faint the waning tide of rapture strays,
Oh, may'st thou 'scape griefs more envenom'd smart,
Nor ever know the ague of the heart.
For rising from the sun bright plain,
The _bended_ lily blooms again;
But ah! what life imparting power
Can e'er revive the _broken_ flower?